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Chapter One

I am both master and slave, as there are many who obey my commands and conversely I answer to many others and to the laws, though I am not blessed with the precious and absolute freedom nor am I cursed in the desolate captivity, being that I have nothing to truly constrain me, except the cast void which exists in the absence of restraint, itself forming the oubliette; nor am I the low popper or the high king, for I have forged fame and amassed gold, yet I lack wealth, having acquired land without gaining the land and I have no people to call my own, no bastion of power or castle, and most assuredly I have no divine right; essentially in my prime, I am the face and the faceless, in that all see me and all forget me­­—a form of formlessness—for I am Alex and I am Alexis and others: I am the doppelganger. 

No man or woman, child, old or young, rich, poor, famous or forgotten, ill minded or wise, have ever heard my tale, which is spun on looms of truth.  Plainly I will spin the flax tonight; though, I must warn: I am exhausting—to the very conceivable threshold of exhaustion’s definition.  And for one to take hold of my ethereal whispers, taking the time to listen—not the half-hearted attention span of the average and rudimentary norm—may illustrate my stark   reality and define the world in which life appears to flourish with a star-like brilliance, which can eradicate the ever undulating fog of shadows, assuming one wants to be unblinded to my world.

A word of caution: this is not a lighthearted fairytale beginning with the neo-classical and abused, “Once upon a time…” nor is this tapestry a love fraught story of two destined to—again being cliché—ride off into a glorious and painted sunset after a wet and pathetically arousing kiss.  Instead this is my story in graphic reality where my moments of triumph are quickly overshadowed by epic failures; where pain, horror, fear, and death are palpable and so near they are powerfully felt.  I will not fancy-coat any gruesome detail as I will not put lightly the pleasures.  Do not sit pleasantly listening to me further if my reality is not understandable or if my world’s horror frightens—if brutal murders, bloody deaths, or dismemberment disturbs.  For my life, as long as it has been, contains all moments, passions, and scenes, often more than once. 

Now, if you are still allowing yourself to continue, then the loom will thread a tapestry which your mind may or may not be able to grasp; still I will do my part to tell the tale as it was and is, in the hopes someone may see what I have seen, even if only vicariously through me.

Where to begin?  Some would say the best and most logical conclusion to that question would be: at the beginning.  However, I am going to discard the beginning for the moment, in favor of a more appropriate point from which to springboard forward—or backwards—as my life has very little chronological value, being more apocalyptical.  Do not misconstrue my point, chronology provides a framework of ordered events, but as you will discover, for me it is also important to consider other factors, poetically speaking.

Let me run the first thread with this starting point: 1310 A.D., when I was in Paris, France.  For that who have calculated it out that was 699 years ago, give or take a year depending on the months.  The month was August.  Why start there?  Because it is as good of a starting point as any other and it is when I first met a man named Job.  He was named after the man in the Bible, but lacked any resemblance in features or character.  This Job would have cursed God at the first affliction despite the fact Job was a man of the cloth.

Job was an orphan.  His mother was a servant in his father’s house who died in childbirth, bearing Job into this world, and in a fit of insanity his father threw himself into the icy Rhine with a chain bound to his ankles.  With no living parents he was given over to the church to raise, and se he was named Job.  He had no say in his lot for life and was forced into the cloth.  Routinely he was seen as a radical and spoken of in utter discontent by the Bishops and Cardinals, though he managed to avoid excommunication.  Coincidentally, it was this passionate desire to be on the edge and to challenge authority, divine or mortal, that compelled a Cardinal to confer upon him a unique task not normally meted out.  He was to hunt me down and hire me, at any price, to do the Vatican’s bidding on a specific matter of concern. 

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

I was in the Vates Tavern in Paris when my eyes first settled on Job.  The lighting was poor, a frail flickering luminance, which played about the shadows in a perfect dancing form, neither being defeated by the darkness that crowded in the corners, small nooks, and edging tables, nor being constrained to the immediate fire of the candle.  Even the most rotund faces appeared gaunt in the drawn shadows, which painted the countenances of each patron in haunting light. To add to the sinister sensations of the taverns begotten lighting, the room also seemed to invoke a cramped feeling—the chamber was paltry—with heavy ebony timbers stretching over the rough ceiling, planked walls long worn, and thick tables which bore an overburdened layer of lacquer which were marred by scores of nicks and gashes.  Most of the tables held a tarnished candelabrum, which cradled low burning candles of a lumpish nature and to which they were firmly affixed to the table trough the solidified stream of molten wax that pooled at its base. 

Patrons of the Vates Tavern never spoke in little more than a subtle whisper, either to avoid being overheard by ever present silhouettes, hunkering near to the twisting flames or because the very atmosphere demanded—silently—that not a word be spoken loudly.  The result was the rhythmic clunk and thunk of tankards and mugs. The tinks and scrapes of the knife cutting meat from bone and marrow, and the dull breath of intangible murmurs, rose and fell in a steady ebbing tide.  From my corner my keen ears picked out the more faint sounds, normally lost to distance or buried beneath the other soft reverberating waves of reverberation.  Sounds like the scraping of the quill against dry parchment, the final drop of wine from the bottle, which missed the cup and struck the floor, or the irregular heart beat of the man who just stumbled through the door into the tavern. 

I watched him intently with an inquisitive obsession.  The thump-thump-thump-thump—thump—thump of his heart was mesmerizing and separated him out from the rest of the crowd in the tavern.  To say the man was corpulent would not have misconstrued the facts in the least—he was not nephilic—for he carried an enormous gorbelly.  A disproportion of his stomach which forced him to lean back when standing to avoid the over powering effects of gravity, which would topple him over.  To further accentuate the wide girth of his belly, he also had small hands, hands which appeared to extend right from his swollen forearms.  There were no wrists, only arms and hands.  Furthermore Job was a stout individual, standing only five and a half feet—if he could even stand erect—making him appear ever wider.  I nearly laughed at his poor frame. 

To crown his head was a full crop of wispy, raven-black hair.  The hair was unkempt and strewn about in straw-like clumps, though he was well shaven, with only one nick on his round face on the right side of his chin.  A small scab marked the unfortunate blemishing cut.  He had a bulbous nose, ears flat to his head, and dark brown eyes which lacked depth and warmth, all semi-normal features, except for the rapid and oddly beating heart.  A feature, if it can be called that, which seized my attention. Either he had a poor heart—a possibility—or he was extraordinarily uncomfortable in this environment.  If it proved to be the later the question of his lingering was of some interest and mild concern.  I have made many powerful enemies over the past two and a half millennia, since shortly after my birth on Jebel Barkal in 1590 B.C. 

The awkward man continued around the tavern, pausing and staring at individuals as he made his way.  After finding the middle of the room, he stood between three massive round tables full of darkly clad men, he pulled out a silver coin—which I had never seen before—and held it up to his eye.  A sapphire-like crystal was imbedded in the coin, slightly off center, and as he looked through it there was a twinkling glamour.  At the moment his eye, concealed by the coin, settled on me, his heart skipped several beats.  Somehow he knew I was different from the rest, and not the man I portrayed myself to be—the quiet, keeping to the edge of shadows, and bored man who is inexhaustibly passing away the ages.  I watched, acutely, as the stout man meandered through the shadowy places making his way slowly and most indirectly towards me.  He came to a pause at the edge of my table; his icy-blank stare peering into me in a demeaning way. 

Maybe he thought he was more important than I?  After all, I am only a simple being.  There is nothing about me to separate me from the whole of society; I blend into the world with seamless precision.  To differentiate my being from the souls who are around me would be nearly impossible, and to separate me from the others in the city would be an insurmountable task.  Yet here he stands, hovering over me with haughty eyes, proclaiming himself the greater.  He knows not who I am. 

He broke the veil of silence with a scraggy whisper, a voice which fit his persona and physical appearance flawlessly.  “My name is Job.”

Simple and direct to the point; however, nothing but silence answered him.  There was no need for me to acknowledge his presence or the statement he made in simplicity.  In truth, I hoped he would depart without another raspy word being uttered.  An odd presence seemed to accompany him, following him on his heels, though it lacked any substance.  It was an aura.

The seconds piled up into a minute and then several minutes, and I began to realize: Job was not going to depart on his own.  I was forced to make a choice, and little did I realize the polycenturial effect it would have.  On one hand I could respond, while on the other I could leave and ensure he would never find me again.  To disappear was within my realm of conventional abilities.  Maybe it was boredom or sheer curiosity, I am really not sure, but I choose the former of the options and responded.

“My name is Alex,” my whisper matching the huddled tones throughout the Vates Tavern.

“Short for Alexander?” asked Job as he cocked his head to the side.

I had to refute the common misconception before the unintentional association took a firm hold.  “No,” I replied stoutly with a tone which carried greater weight than the voice I whispered before. 

Job took a seat at my table.  He had to shift the chair a good way back in order to make room for his fat belly, and I watched in mild amusement as he managed to drop into the chair without breaking it asunder.  There was no asking, only the heavy drop into the chair—I wish the wooden legs would have shattered—and then we sat face-to-face. 

“I’m sorry for the intrusion and I am sure you don’t get many visitors—especially here—but I’ve been sent to find you and bring an important message which you will need to hear.  As an emissary from the Vatican and as a member of the cloth I expect you will indeed accept my company.”  His scraggy whisper, like a rasp to my ears, sheered the air as he spoke. 

The oddity I found was that he was sent to seek me out.   No mortal could see me for what I am, yet this one spoke as if he knew who he had found.  This particular curiosity confounded me and burned within me.  I had my enemies, for I have had long enough to make them and I can only hope they would send such a fool after me, but he did not seem to bear any weapon against me.  The Vatican and the cloth; both entities I desperately tried to avoid.  I shook my head slightly.  Confounded was not what I wanted to be.  I needed clarity and facts, both which I could use to ascertain the meanings of his visit and gauge potential threat, and I had neither.

“Who do you think you have found—priest?” I asked bluntly with an edge of terseness.

“The doppelgänger,” he said in the lowest whisper.

Job’s reply brought me straight to my feet.  The ebony table skidded back several inches unleashing a grinding groan which filled the small tavern as I pushed it away while standing.  No one knew that term and most certainly no one would call me by it.  It was my lineage and my heritage, but I was the only one.  And no one knew who or what I was.  Who was this Job?  An anger arouse and I felt the urge to kill him where he stood, though I stayed my hand and after three breaths through clenched teeth, I decided to depart without another word.

“Please sit,” asked Job.  “I mean no offense to you.  The message I bare is of the greatest importance and finding you was no easy task even with the Vatican’s assistance.  You are, shall I say, like a chameleon.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.  My voice reached the limitations of a whisper as I towered over Job. 

“Four years ago the Vatican charged me to locate you and request a service of you.  Of course there is considerable compensation for the service; compensation which you may enjoy.”

He never should have found me.  The power I controlled and my abilities have kept me silently hidden for thousands of years and in a manner of minutes my feelings of confidence and security vanished.  Suddenly I felt open and vulnerable.  Two sensations I was not familiar with.  And he wanted a service of me.  “What service is so vital the Vatican spends four years finding a man to do the job, when they could do it themselves?”

“There are some things even the Vatican can not do.  The Cardinal thought one with your abilities and talents would be extraordinarily beneficial.”

“My talents?”

“Your ability to mimic others,” Job said flatly.  “You’re a copycat.”

A copycat.  The term infuriated me, though I clamped down and forced a neutral outward expression.  The truth was: he was absolutely correct.  On several occasions I had attempted to change into an image that was all my own, a unique creation which would be me, and the transformation never worked.  To take on the human appearance I required a human to model my form after; without the model the alterations would be disproportional or disfigured.  It was not that I wanted to mimic others, but the only way I could appear human was to be a copycat.  I hate that word. 

“Yes, I have the ability to alter my form, but that is my own affair and I don’t enjoy the meddling of ignorant fools.”  I drew back from the table, withdrawing and turning swiftly to depart.

Job did not move from his seat at my table.  “I’m an emissary from the Holy Catholic Church.  The task is of grave importance and for you it is simple enough and the compensation considerable.  I urge you to reconsider your departure, Alex.”

Gold.  I never went without money, as my ability allowed me to acquire any additional funds with relative ease.  Over the centuries I managed to establish a large reservoir of funds, which were ever at my disposal.  To offer gold as a payment was like offering sand to a desert nomad—utterly ridiculous.  “I’ve no need for gold,” I said over my shoulder.

“Of course you don’t.  You can get gold easily enough.  The Vatican requests you kill a vampire and you will not be compensated with gold.” 

The words were hardly spoken, not even a whisper, but I heard them.  I stopped dead.  For over a thousand years I strove to forget the vampires’, but they existed all around me and we both clung to the shadowed places.  I never embraced them and only with cold and empty stares would I view them.  Vampires are a race of creatures, which were once human, but upon their ritualistic dark rebirth, became something wholly other than human.  They retained their fleshy husks, though anemically pale, and their features thinned and their faces drew long and gaunt.  Death had taken them, though they still tread the dust of the earth.  And in the harboring night, beneath moons light or by the flickering candles light they were hauntingly beautiful, moving with archetypical grace.  I was never confused about them—only evil and death are within them.  How he knew my vengeful hate of the vampire race was beyond my comprehension.  Long ago I had contemplated a personal campaign against them, but at the urgings of the Fates I fled to my isolated solitude, where my past chained me to the ground.  The decision to leave at that time, as the decision to rejoin society, were made for good reasons—at least reasons which seemed good at the time.  The hate was still there, ever present, and I wanted to slay every one of the fallen beasts, but my hand was stayed and I maintained control. 

“They took Cynthia from you.  It’s been a thousand years, isn’t it time for some revenge?” whispered Job from his unmoved position.

“Never utter her name again or I swear upon her grave you will fund the dreamless sleep before her name is a breath from your lips.”  I spun on my heels and stomped back to the table, slamming my fists down in a rage-filled display.  My knuckles whitened under the pressure I exacted upon them.  The boiling fury consumed me and in Job’s icy eyes I saw the glimmer of fear.  Who was he to mention her name?  “And do not presume to manipulate me to your will through your inducing my rage!  I have no love for the vampires, but my blood thirst for them is suppressed, if not by the request of the Fates, then by the Concilium of Kiev.”

“The Concilium is of no importance to me or to the Vatican—we were not part of its body and are not bound by its agreement—it only is applicable to the fey, vampires, and lycans, not to the human authorities.  You would be acting on our behalf, not your own races.  Would this not remove you from your obligation to follow the laws of your kind?” said Job.

“No.”

“His name is Thor, a vampire from the south.  He roams among the great covens of Europe,” said Job, as he leaned over the table.

I knew the name of Thor.  The last time I heard his name was in Thebes.  Among the vampires he and an infamous reputation for ascension through deadly attrition—a tactic the three judges of the Dirae Law often assigned lethal punishment.  In exchange for his life, the judges imposed upon him a unique task: he was to hunt down and kill rogue vampires who threatened the judges.  An odd twist of fate in a way, for the laws he broke he now enforced.  However, the judges granted Thor unprecedented authority and power, in an effort to carry out the inquisition. 

“The assassination of Thor would bring the whole vampire society to war against the humans,” I noted aloud. 

To clarify, I have no great love for the blind humans, but if the vampires ever waged an open war with mankind, darkness would consume the world.  A notion I detested and did not feel like entertaining.  To complicate things, the Fates would certainly insist on saving the human race and would break the Concilium of Kiev and a new war would erupt.  There was no way to win this argument, for it is complex and every facet points to destruction.

“Alex, you know as well as I do that the fey would not allow a war to consume the humans.”

His assessment was accurate.  The fey had always been the silent guard of humanity, who through vigorous talks, negotiations, and treaties, had long kept the vampires in constant check—quietly preventing the total enslavement of mankind.  Understand that when provoked the fey had powerful forces to call upon and their numbers are truly unknown. 

On only one occasion had I attended the fey Ephor, a council of sorts, and met the Fates—the three judges of the fey and the Shee Law.  I had gone to them in hopes of discussing my heritage, but for all of their wisdom, the Fates were mystified like the rest.  Though I learned little of my personal past from the Ephor, I did grasp a deeper understanding of the considerably control they maintained.  The fey race was expansive and well rooted, with powerful forces spread throughout the earth’s face.  Their power was not as limited or weak as once suspected; though, I did not want to test the fey’s influence in a war with the vampires or lycans.  Since that day, I have been careful to consider the Fates point of view and always calculated their reactions into my decisions; after all, I am fey and the Shee Law binds me as it does all fey.  Job obviously had considered this, which illuminated the fact that he was considerably more aware of the unseen forces of night and nature which operated around ever soul on earth.  He was not a blinded fool, ignorant of the status of humanity, constantly believing that no other intelligent being inhabited the world.  The Vatican had indeed sent a calculating juggernaught who understood the complications, the players involved, and the lasting implications. 

“You have some knowledge of the situation and the creatures involved?”  I pressed Job for more information.

“The situation is grave and grim.  And as for the creatures, as you call them, I have studied the vampires and lycans for several years and am an authority on them at the Vatican, which is why I was sent to find you.  Though I have to admit, my studies of the fey were limited.  They are more difficult to find and observe.”

“The fey have no need for interfering in the affairs of mankind.”

“Directly.”

Job was right.  The fey did indirectly interfere often with the course of history and human affairs—never directly—which allowed them to remain in the background while the hungry vampires and warring lycans managed to get the dim spotlight.  Not that the fey were concerned about the spotlight, except for avoiding it.  The less humanity knew the better they were, at least according to the Fates. 

Had Job already conversed with the Fates and obtained permission to acquire my skills?  The notion explained how he found me so quickly, but the idea of the Fates dealing so openly with a man was bordering on the absurdly impossible.  Only a handful of men have ever even seen one of the Fates, let alone discuss anything with them, as the Shee Law forbids any blunt and open communication with a human with the exception of children and a few very rare circumstances.  This was not one of those rare times. 

Why had Job come to the fey?  Clearly he realized the lycans would have mauled him before he ever opened his mouth to speak and would have fed his ample lard and flesh to the young.  Despite that issue, if he had managed to get out a few words, delaying his assured death, the lycans would not have violated the Concilium of Kiev and would have taken his request as a willful act of instigating a war between the lycans and vampires.  Coincidentally, by assassinating Thor a war would erupt anyways and I would have to ensure the battle lines were drawn between the vampires and the lycans; not between the vampires and humanity.  Twisted and dire complexities—all to be dealt with in due time and with careful measure.

Slowly I backed away from the table, watching Job’s dark brown eyes watch me as I again took my original seat across from him.  The time had come to discover more about the motives of the Vatican and Job.  “Why assassinate Thor?” I asked.  There were other vampires with more prestige and influence—Thor was a tank, a brute force, not the typical exacting scalpel that marked his kinds precise nature—he had power, but lacked the reigns of control. 

Job leaned in over the heavy table.  I smelled his wet breath and sweaty brow.  “Thor plans to overthrow the Archon.”

“The Archon?” I asked leaning instinctively back.  The Archon was the ruling council of vampires.  Just as the fey had the Ephor ruled by the Fates, the vampires had the Archon ruled by the Furies.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He plans on assassinating Magaera.”  Job’s cold and flat voice offered no sympathy to the planned murder.

“Thor is going to assassinate Magaera, one of the Furies, in order to overthrow the vampire Archon?  Is he mad?  There is no possible way that would work.  He would never get close enough to complete such a daring task and if he did the remaining Furies would hunt him down and destroy him under the Dirae Law.  That and he is specifically charged with protecting the Furies and granted the power to kill those who oppose the Furies or the Archon.”

“Nevertheless, Thor plans to kill Magaera and bring down the Archon.”

I shook my head in awe.  “This is insanity and will correct itself without my assistance.  There is no need to implicate the fey or human interference in vampire problems.” 

Job may have been an intellectual behemoth, but to be sure he was also raving mad!  He was crazy to honestly believe Thor would be able to topple the Furies, which have ruled with absolute authority for over four thousand years.  Never had the right of power been challenged and never had any real attempt been made to overthrow the Archon.  If what Job said was correct and accurate, then Thor planned on single handedly destroying thousands of years of stability in the vampire society. 

“There is concern,” said Job.  “The fall of the Archon will dissolve the relative peace between the vampires and mortal man.”

There was a rational I could not refute.  The Fates along with the unanimous support of the Ephor would vote to stand between humanity and the waves of vampires.  This would ensure the end of the peace and the beginning of a great war.  If I managed to assassinate Thor and pin it on someone specific or if I could manage an alliance with the lycans then the fey would stand a better chance.  With the decision made to accept the task presented by Job, the last piece of the puzzle was the payment.

“Job—what can the Vatican offer as compensation?”

“Other than gold?” offered Job with obvious sarcasm in his tone.

I glared at him, cutting into him with my eyes, burrowing into the deep marrow.  We had already discussed the uselessness of gold and he mockingly offers gold as a payment. 

Job leaned back, the glimmer of a smile melting away.  “Sorry,” he sputtered in his raspy whisper.  “A little humor never hurt, did it?”

Impatient to close these dealings I repeated the question to him again, dropping my voice to a deathly low tone.  “What is the compensation?”

“In the winding crags of the Harz Mountains there is an old and now abandoned monastery.  It has no great outward appearance, but it delves extensively into the granite and is a magnificent complex.  Because of the nature of the Harz Mountains and the labyrinthine valleys, the monastery is practically impossible to locate.  The isolation there would be nearly complete.  It would be yours—an inner sanctum for you to sit in your natural form without concern of others.”

The proposal was sound and the payment was considerable in relation to the task.  I kill Thor and in turn receive a grand monastery, to do with as I please.  The requested duty also gave me reason to go into the vampire covens and hunt who I needed while I seek out Thor.  Two birds with one stone. 

There was, however, a unique complication: the lycan involvement.  A possibility existed that disturbed my thoughts.  Thor may have gained an ally in the lycan society, which would secure him and cause the total collapse of the vampire society within months, allowing the lycans to slide in and fill the vacuum created in the vampires absence.  An ally of that magnitude would be difficult to secure, especially with a mortal enemy, but I could not rule the possibility out.  I would have to seek the aide of the lycans and learn more about their dealings with Thor—if there were any.  Alexis may have to find Vidar again.

“Where is Thor?” I asked.  My voice again was a soft whisper as I leaned forward to rest my elbows on the marred lacquer of the table.

“That is part of the problem.  We don’t know where Thor is at,” said Job.  “It was assumed that your abilities would allow you to infiltrate and discern his location without detection.”

This would be a long campaign.  To find a vampire who did not want to be found was no easy task; especially when the vampire is granted power by the Furies and the Archon.  His resources would not be exhausted easily.  How many years might I become enthralled in this enterprise?  It was impossible to calculate.  There were simply too many variables beyond my control.  These innumerable variables made me consciously consider the real possibility that I was overstepping my abilities.  Still, I had to try.  I leaned back in the chair and allowed the darker shadows to drape themselves over me.

“I accept your proposal and agree to the terms of compensation upon completion of the task.  I expect the title to the land and monastery to be signed, sealed, and delivered to me upon the death of Thor.  However, there is one last detail.”

“What is that?”

“I will need considerable time to infiltrate into the tightly knit covens of Europe.  Is there a time constraint?”

Job nodded slowly.  “Yes, but it is only because you must complete the deed before Magaera dies.”  Job paused and cleared his throat, swallowing hard.  “Should you fail…”

“I don’t fail.”

“I understand, but should something unforeseen occur, the Vatican will deny the knowledge of you, deny contact with you, and deny your dealings.  In a way this visit never happened.”

Failure. I knew the definition of the word well enough and understood its contextual meaning.  But personally it was a foreign concept to me.  My lack of failure, in part, was a direct correlation to my rather safe nature.  I hated taking risks and the few I took were well planned and calculated.  And to clarify, withdrawing is not failure.  I would not fail at this task for my own personal drive would not allow me to. 

“We have an accord,” I said with a smile.

“Excellent Alex, and I will keep in touch as time and circumstance permit.”

“You will not find me again.”

“If that’s the case, then I will see you when you come to claim your due reward.”

“Indeed.”

Job pushed up from the table, lifting his round belly and frame from the creaking chair—I still wished it would break—and with a slightly reclined posture turned to depart.  He paused for a moment and looked at me, eyeing me with a wary gaze.  The feeling of insecurity and worry flew over his face, vanishing as it appeared. 

“May God go with you,” said Job as he walked away. 

I smiled and I listened to the irregularly beating heart as it mingled with the other sounds of the tavern and then dissipated into the night air as Job moved deeper into Paris.  Carefully I picked up the cup of ale and swirled it in front of me.  There was no better place to start than the cramped corners of the Vates Tavern in Paris.

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